The Sweetest Thing
by terrified
Summary: A lighthearted one-shot, prompt-fill. Sherlock takes Molly with him to a case and is distracted by his passion for beekeeping, only to realise that Molly knows a thing or two about his hobby as well.


_**A/N**: A tumblr prompt fill for the following: __"Theres a crime scene at a bumblee farm thing and sherlock gets way ethusiastic about the bees and sorta forgets about the crime all together as he bounces around to all the different hives, dragging molly by the hand, much to the amusement/annoyance of others"_

_Hope you'll enjoy it! x_

* * *

**The Sweetest Thing**

DI Lestrade exhaled with relief when a familiar black car pulled up into the driveway of the grand old estate they were in. The house, if you could call it that, was massive and it had so much land surrounding it, it felt like a country in its own right.

"Sherlock," he greeted, with a slight nod, "Oh, hello Molly, didn't expect to see you here…"  
"Well, I wasn't expecting to be here but…"  
"Where are they?" Sherlock asked, nudging Molly forward, past Lestrade.  
"The man of the house was found face down in the sitting room," Lestrade began, checking his notes, "And his wife is upstairs in their bed. The man was poisoned and the lady seems to have been asphyxiated. No sign of other people living or working here. Also, we found notes scribbled everywhere, on the walls, on their paintings, on the table. It looks like Italian. We're still waiting for the translator…  
"Hmm…boring," Sherlock muttered.  
"Boring?" said both Molly and Lestrade simultaneously.  
"Well, by boring I mean, now that _we're_ on the case, we can probably finish this…" he glanced casually at his watch, "…just in time for tea."

Lestrade rolled his eyes while Molly smirked to herself. Sherlock may have 'died' once but his ego certainly had not. If anything, it raged on with a vengeance.

Sherlock strode into the sitting room and knelt by the corpse. Molly put on her surgical gloves and crouched beside him, slowly examining the body.

"Let's see now," she said to herself, "He's probably been dead about ten hours. The skin is stiff and it seems to me this man suffers from gout and is on some kind of medication for hypertension…"  
"Hmm…Do go on," Sherlock said, as he carefully inspected the man's wrists.  
"He seems to be terribly allergic to the poison as well, whatever the poison was. If you look at his face, he's exhibiting all the symptoms of…"

Molly's slew of forensic deductions was interrupted by a sharp gasp from the consulting detective who had dropped the hand he was inspecting. He looked up at Molly with a bright, eager expression only to be met by a confused frown on Molly's face.

"Sherlock?"  
"Quick, Molly," he said, grabbing her by the hand and yanking her to her feet, "To the back!"  
"The backyard? Why? Sherlock!" she exclaimed as the detective kept a firm hold of her hand, dragging her with him.

"Sherlock…what are we—"  
"The man's an apiarist, Molly," said Sherlock, "I could tell from his hands."  
"_How_ can you possibly tell from just—"  
"If he's a beekeeper, he must have hives…"  
"Okay, but why are we going to—…"  
"There, Molly…" he said, almost breathless from excitement.

Facing the pair was a long row of different man-made hives that filled the backyard. The owner of the house had retired and was a recreational apiarist but he had the land and the means to have _this_ many hives.

"Fascinating…" said Sherlock, walking towards the first hive, not once letting go of Molly's hand.  
"Is this…related to the murder?" asked Molly.  
"No, no…" he murmured as he peered hard at the first hive, "It's just… Wow, look, Molly. They've managed to build the bee space at exactly 8 millimetres, as it should be."  
"Right…"said Molly, taking a peek at the hives herself.  
"There, you see? They've constructed the frame according to the natural gaps bees keep when they construct their hives. Their sort of passageway…" he rattled off deliriously.  
"Um, Sherlock… The murder?" Molly reminded him gently. She was also starting to get pins and needles in her hand from him gripping it so tightly.

Her reminder had barely been registered by the detective who was now completely absorbed in studying the hives. He had nearly endangered them by wanting to pull one of the combs out before remembering that neither of them had protective gear on. Although, thankfully, it was at that moment that he let go of Molly's hand. She rubbed it and winced a little, trying frantically to get its circulation back.

"Where's his shed?" asked Sherlock suddenly, looking frantically around, "I'm sure we'll find a suit and then I can show you, Molly, how wonderfully intricate the wax patterns are _inside_ the combs. And if I've managed to determine the correct type of bee then we should see that the wax formations are—"  
"There you are!" came Lestrade's voice as he ran after them with a lady beside him.  
"The translator is here and has read through all the murderer's scribbles so I thought you might want to discuss it…"  
"I've read them all, George," Sherlock remarked, annoyed at having been interrupted, "And I have no need of a translator. Your murderer is a very, very angry young man."  
"Young man?"  
"Yes, a young man, I'd say early twenties, Italian, recently moved here and is in-between studies and part-time work." Sherlock said, his tone shifting from annoyance to just being a pure show-off. "Based on his handwriting on the walls and the carpet…"  
"There were some on the carpet?" Lestrade exclaimed, surprised.  
"Yes," Sherlock huffed, short of rolling his eyes, "His handwriting suggests a sort of meltdown, which could have sparked his little rampage."  
"But nobody works here, how are we ever going to find…"  
"That's why you need me," said Sherlock, returning to examine the hives.

Lestrade thanked the translator and sent her back to one of his officers, telling her to pass her notes to them anyway for them to record in the case file.

"What have the hives got to do with this?" asked Lestrade, perplexed at the intense scrutiny Sherlock was giving each hive. Molly shrugged her shoulders and gave Lestrade a resigned smile.

"He's just being Sherlock…"  
"I _will_ find your man, Lestrade…" said Sherlock, his back still to them, "If you'd only stop disturbing me. This is highly fascinating and I suggest you start your men on interviewing neighbours, old friends, ex-colleagues of the couple so as to find this young, angry Italian man."  
"That's…going to be impossible. Nobody comes to this estate, it's so far out…"  
"Well, that's why you have to search and search _now_…"  
"Um, actually…" Molly interrupted quietly.

At the sound of her voice, Sherlock snapped up from his bee inspection and turned to her.

"Your manhunt won't have to be so large," said Molly, walking up to Sherlock and the row of hives.  
"Was there something I missed?" he asked Molly, quietly.  
"Did you ask Molly what I think you just asked…" said Lestrade.  
"Yes. You heard correct." Sherlock snapped, a little embarrassed.  
"I'm going to text John…" said Lestrade with a laugh. "_Was there something I missed?_ Ha, I can't believe it." Lestrade muttered to himself, amused.

Sherlock's eyes followed Molly's hand as she gestured at the wooden structures that formed the manmade hives.

"Our victim is an Englishman who keeps bees as a hobby, right?" Molly said.  
"Yes…" Sherlock replied.  
"But look, this isn't the standard Langstroth hive design that most British beekeepers use for building movable combs…"  
"Langstroth? How do you know—"  
"Be quiet and listen," she said, suppressing a smile as she continued, "If you step back and look at the overall hive dimensions, what do you see that's unusual?"

Sherlock listened and stepped back from the hives, taking in their overall shape and size from a wider perspective.

"Every country has its own signature hive dimension, a national hive design, if you will," Molly explained, "So if this is a British apiary, in a British backyard, in a British manor, what's wrong here, Sherlock?"  
"The dimensions are consistent with the Italian hive design…" he said, wide-eyed. He turned to Molly and could not help but smile at her. "Very impressive, Molly."  
"So clearly, someone, apart from our two dead friends, _has_ been on the property," she said.  
"But for a very specific purpose, to construct and maintain the apiary…" Sherlock continued.  
"Exactly." she said with a nod, "And your search is now narrowed."  
"Did you get that, Lestrade?" Sherlock said, his eyes not once leaving Molly's. His admiration for her multiplied and the smile on his face meant it was a lot more than just pure admiration.

"Sorry, what?" said Lestrade, looking up from his phone.  
"For God's sake, George!" Sherlock exclaimed.

* * *

In the car back to Bart's, Sherlock turned to Molly and studied her. She felt his gaze and turned to face him, smiling at him.

"Yes?" she asked.  
"How did you know?" he asked, simply.  
"Why wouldn't I?" she replied, her eyes twinkling mischievously.  
"Well, I mean…it's a rather unusual topic…"  
"I'm an unusual girl, Sherlock," she replied.  
"You most certainly are," he said with a smile.  
"And besides," she said, turning from him to face the window, "Honey is delicious."

* * *

A few days later, Mrs Hudson handed Sherlock a package with a note from Molly. She had come to deliver it personally but he had been out. He sat in his armchair and chose to open the package first. When he undid the wrapping, he saw that it was an old but very well-kept early edition of _Nouvelles Observations sur les Abeilles_* by François Huber. He gasped quietly to himself as he carefully lifted the crisp pages and saw that it was indeed an original volume and kept in pristine condition. He quickly moved on to her note, unfolding it eagerly.

_My father passed this on to me after he had died. He was such an avid reader and the most scholarly man I knew. He would read this with me when I was growing up. I imagine this book would be better-suited in your library than in a dusty box of books in my room. I'm confident of your fluency in French so I know this French edition will pose no problems to you. Enjoy. xx Molly_

Sherlock ran his fingers across her neat handwriting and smiled. If he was honest with himself, his heart thumped just that little bit harder in his chest. He walked over to his desk and began writing a note in response as he contemplated ways to return this beautifully generous gift.

* * *

The day after she had sent the package over to Sherlock's, Molly headed to the locker room at work and on opening her locker realised that Sherlock had picked its lock again. On the top shelf of her locker, she saw a prettily wrapped jar of Fortnum and Mason's French Lavender Honey, along with a note attached to it. She smiled and proceeded to read the note which said:

_The book was marvellous. A pot of honey, as a token of my gratitude._  
_On the topic of honey:_  
_I should like to say that you, Molly Hooper, are the sweetest thing._

_SH_

_P.S. Dinner tonight at 221B? Text me. _

* * *

It was an hour before midnight and after a wonderful evening of discussing bees, the latest deaths and the delightful wine they were drinking, Sherlock spent the rest of the time slow dancing in his sitting room with the sweetest thing he ever knew, Molly Hooper.

**End**

_*New Observations on the Natural History of Bees_


End file.
